Live the Life
by fourheads
Summary: She had decided, adamantly, an hour after her plane had landed, that she would meet him. And Mark believed every word; She'd fly to New Jersey for the weekend to visit an old friend. Just to drop by. See how things were. HouseStacey


**A/N**: Yup. Still no update for _Desperado_; sorry guyfs. ):

But seeing as how HouseStacey is my OTP and no one really knows it, I thought, _hey, w__hy not write something unexpected for once_

It's not that I don't LOOOOOVE HouseCam, because honestly, I do; but watching S4 kinda sorta maybe made me lose interest in the pairing, seeing that the writers have pretty much dismissed any and all possibilities of the two of them ever doing _anything_ other than faux-needle-kissing. The events of the show really have that much impact on my opinion of a pairing.

Which is sad, because I adored the idea of their possible relationship. I don't even know what it is about them, I just loved wondering how'd they struggle together until they ultimately became a couple and acted on each other.

For the rest. Of. Their. Lives. (LOL, aged couples are _amazing_)

So, to warm the ice of Season 4 (because IMO, all the characters have lost most of their once addicting chemistry and twisted amiability), here's a rather poetic HouseStacey fic, and a possibly continual one, depending on the feedback (which, as always, IS MUCHO APPRECIATED)

Read. Review. Enjoy.

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Miniscule raindrops, each pummeling towards the cold, dark, and dusty brown like little transitory soldiers, left their memories scaling, trailing the elongated glass of a darkened apartment window.

There was no light inside.

The doctor had decided upon himself to leave his artless yellow liquor to smolder in the distance, even if only for the insignificant hour that he would be parted from its side. The bottle whistled mournfully as an increasing wind, emptying itself from the infinite glass into the confines of the mouth of a forgotten open window, swirled through its neck.

No, no; none for him today.

Today he would let his eyes, his face, let _himself_ breathe clean and pristine and slowly drift above the foggy veil of drunkenness that he would often drag and choked himself under.

Today would be different.

But to whom or what did he owe this unexpected triumph in character?

(He smiled both contentedly and shamelessly at his answer.)

Nothing and no one; he felt no other feeling than his characteristic inclination to be entirely unpredictable.

The disagreeable weather had given him the perfect opportunity to brood upon whatever shapeless reflection he felt like, always placed on the glorified pedestal that he never failed to mockingly sum up his existence with that he found intolerable, undesirable, or personal, of course, among those that he could compare with internally.

Every chance to sympathize, he would take in an instant. But only if it pertained to himself, of course.

Of course, _of course_.

This was he who healed the dying man and proclaimed, "Let there be lies!", of course.

Within the boundaries of several minutes passing by, the doctor found himself nearing a barren little café, windswept, without a wind to tease. He pressed an open palm against his face, felt the cold and the dry and found that it too was windswept.

Stuffing his glove-encased hands into the deepest pockets of a beaten, chocolate buckskin jacket, the doctor pressed his body against the frosted glass of the café door, nudging it open with a piercing creak and simultaneous, charming ring of a bell. The wafting scent of cinnamon melted against his rough, disapproving face and died down beneath his beaten leather soles while his tired blue eyes rose expectantly.

There she was.

Beautiful.

Confident.

Radiant.

His own Forget-Me-Not, one that would not wilt or spoil no matter how he deprived her of air and sunshine.

Even when plucked from her open field of green to suffer in the doctor's rustic pot, she always found her way back to her gardener's arms to be tended to. Cared for.

And the doctor despised him for that.

He should have just walked away right then, save himself another day of destruction.

But she acknowledged his presence as she rose from the little white table, raising her toasted hands for emphasis as she neared him, a trail of light glowing behind her.

The doctor frowned. The nearer she drew, the more evident it became that her habitually composed manor was presented as unsteady and cautious.

Her eyes were dark and unstill, frantically chasing any meeting point like a goldfish purposelessly circling a plastic castle, hoping, praying that she would be able to look at anyone, any_thing_ other than the man standing feet away from her, as if she were somehow befuddled as to how found herself in an ungodly little café where the coffee mugs reminisced of the flavor of three-cheese omelet and the men looked, walked, and breathed like cheerless memories.

Or perhaps that was just hers.

Even so, she had decided adamantly hours before, pacing and tracing her dimly-lit hotel room an hour after her plane had landed in New Jersey; she would meet him.

Mark believed every word; she would fly to New Jersey for the weekend to visit an old friend.

Just to say hello.

See how things were.

Struggling to keep the procession of her mouth from curbing, she looked up into his eyes, angling her head so slightly so that she was just able to gaze upward at his tall frame, lonely and wanting her as much as ever.

"Greg," she huffed. His name sounded like stones dropping from her mouth; just as rough and just as heavy.

House looked down at her feet, appreciating her piercingly red toes poking out of a pair of black patent leather heels that appeared as equally expensive as they did uncomfortable.

Disturbed by the weak silence strung between them that somehow also managed to lace them together, he shifted his stormy gaze head-on, gifting her his own disturbing glare.

"If I knew this was going to be a business meeting, I would have brought my _own_ super-cute whore sandals. But hey, we're just _all_ about surprises now, right? Screw the saying; secrets, secrets are _so_ fun."

Brushing his sarcasm aside, Stacey rolled her eyed disapprovingly and pretended to ignore it; she knew how it killed him when his comments proved seemingly ineffective.

She took several tentative steps back so as to keep House's warm breath from gracing her face. "I can just as easily kick my own ass right back onto that plane as you can, Greg, just save me the hilarity and let me go if you only called me over just to torment me."

"No, no, _no_. Sit. Talk."

Boyishly, he cocked his head to one side and continued to smile so that the ironic existence of laugh lines beside his lips was in full view.

Silence.

"I know, let's gossip," he began excitedly.

"About my husband, no doubt."

"How _is_ Dear Brutus? Betraying our poor Caesar as usual, I presume. Or is he hittin' the clubs and blowing all Julius' moolah on bongs and whores?"

The vindictive doctor could have blown smoke in his former partner's throat and it wouldn't have stung more smartly than the malicious smile on his face. Clearly, he was enjoying his torture in slow, bittersweet strides, but little did the former know, it pained him to see her and not be able to touch her, to break out of character for just the smallest, sweetest period of time and simply share a content moment without the feeling of restraint with her by his side.

He'd done that once before, which ended in the setting of more boundaries and limits, unable to be teased.

Desperately, he hid his hands in his jacket, balled into white fists, to keep himself from acting impulsively out of anger and remorse. He wanted so badly to erase the thoughts of Mark for her, knowing the Good Samaritan would never have the vice to do it herself.

But he realized that no matter how the villain was ultimately able to satisfy his desire to liquidate the happiness of another, he or she found only more despair behind the flaming veil they fervently thrust back.

House had taken his anger steps further; it was far too late for second chances, even the salvation of knowing that a second chance was still within reach. He had lost that chance when Stacey.

He'd lost dozens of chances with Stacey.

Following his path of self-destruction, House had bid her existence adieu the last time she returned to him, pressing that he would drag her down with him.

But he knew that would never happen. She was too stable to fall to instability.

But she'd fallen for him at one point, hadn't she?

He sighed heavily, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and turned towards the disgruntled "A-_hem_" wheezing tunelessly behind him. He'd expected a response to the slight scene they were causing and it was the manager, no doubt, stereotypically tapping his foot in irritation and folding his arms against his short, stocky body.

_What dignity_, the doctor mused.

Seconds into the unforgivingly obnoxious continuation of the manager's insinuations of annoyance, House began to shake with rivaling agitation. He turned towards Stacey.

"Holy Christ, frauline, I'm getting the feeling that we're not wanted here," he spat, irritated, as the younger gentleman continued tap-tap-tapping. House reluctantly stormed outside the establishment, Stacey trailing close behind. Revealing themselves to the milky light outside the café, they were greeted by a tangled mess of protesting gray clouds as they rumbled forebodingly.

Stacey turned away from him for a moment, looking back as if she had missed something important, but returned to face him with newfound steadiness that brought an unbearable pain. This was what he had been missing. This was why he'd denied solitude and smoke for the entirety of the day.

"What am I doing here, Greg?" She asked, knowing she was addressing herself more than he.

"Well if you're going to get all _analytical_-"

And she boldly took hold of both of his arms, but she internally chastised herself for feeling unexpectedly lighthearted as they stiffened beneath her grasp.

He glared at her, though she detected the usual satisfaction he felt when he was able to make her swoon.

"_Stop_." She begged.

House grimaced further, grinding his teeth to keep from releasing the furious anger he knew he was more than capable of. All momentary buoyancy fled from the atmosphere.

He managed to restrain his words so that they reached no higher than a strained whisper, "I didn't make you come."

"But you would if I hadn't."

And he knew this was completely true. Factual even.

It had been several months into their relationship years ago when Stacey had been off to Colorado to visit a childhood friend in the hospital, a plan House had been well aware of far in advance. Even so, he had managed to muster up the selfishness to smuggle her toiletries and credit cards from her suitcase, forcing her to return to him before she could board the plane.

She hated that this was how she remembered what they used to be.

"Damn it, House, what do you want from me? To leave Mark and run away with you like we're in some sick fantasy? How do you expect me to live like that? Live like I lived before? I can't have you lock me up in the highest tower while you leave me for the work you always put before me. I can't live like that. I can't _live._"

She felt the rain begin to plummet for the second time that poignant day as slow, hot tears slid down her cheeks, and eventually, House was unable to differentiate between the two.

"I want you to stay," was all he said.

"No, you want me to wantyou, but I don't want you, Greg-"

He retorted, "Then why would-"

"- I _love_ you."

His eyes went wide.

Stacey finally removed her clenched hands from his arms as she rubbed her hands shamefully.

"But you won't stay with me," He answered for her.

She then decided there was no sense in reviving what had been lost, seeing as all that was left of them were words. Stacey began to walk hurriedly in any direction that would take her as far away from him as possible. It hurt too goddamn much to want what she couldn't have. To commit love to something that wasn't openly reciprocal.

She thought of Mark.

Through the peddling strands of rain, she forced herself back against the wall of the café under an awning. The innocent pitter-patter of rain atop it in comparison to its roar against the ground allowed her mind to stray, if only for a moment.

Minutes passed.

She shivered against the wall, hooking her arms tightly around her chest for a pitiful amount of warmth, half-expecting the doctor to appear beside her reassuringly, call her name, _anything_.

But she then she remembered who he was and all hope is dismissed.

Minutes.

Nothing.

It was only until the rain had slowed and she had begun to drag her defeated soul to the dampened parking lot that she detected the faint vibrations of a distant thunder racing towards her, growing in sound as she grew in anticipation.

It was a motorcycle.

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So, think it's done?

Is House coming back for her? Leaving ? IDK! I'd love some ideas in case I decide to continue ( because I _realllly_ want to write some smut between the two :D ).

You tell me. ;)


End file.
